


Bless Me, Father

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: 2017 "The 100" Kink Meme Fills [8]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Confessional Sex, F/M, Forbidden Love, Oral Sex, Priest Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: In the course of attempting to file for an annulment to extricate herself from her passionless marriage to Thelonious, Abby has to go to Confession for the first time since her youth.  But it's been a long time since any man has looked at her the way smoldering, sexy Father Kane has, and things get a little out of hand . . .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> filled prompt from the 2017 "the 100" kink meme on livejournal (http://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1753.html?thread=258265#t258265)
> 
> PROMPT: "Kane is a priest, Abby goes to confession, ends up sucking him off in confessional booth, then they have sex on the altar"

She enters the dark, incense-scented room and closes the narrow door.  
  
It’s a tiny space, the size of a closet, lit only by a few candles in red glass cups set into small openings scattered all over the wall, casting a warm, flickering glow over the rich dark wood.  
  
There’s no furniture in the room except an old-fashioned _prie-dieux,_ a padded kneeler meant for prayer, shoved into the dim corner, and two chairs. She sits down in the chair meant for her. In the other is a dark, shadowy shape – a tall man, with thick soft hair picking up flickering lights and shadows from the candles. He’s facing away from her.  
  
“Take your time,” he says in a gentle, warm voice as she seats herself and sheds her purse and coat. “Whenever you’re ready.”  
  
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she murmurs, voice pitched low. The confessionals are entirely soundproof, to protect the congregation’s privacy, but in a small space like this it still feels wrong to make any sound louder than a whisper. “It has been sixteen years since my last Confession.”  
  
“Welcome home, then,” he says, and his voice throbs low in her gut, making her tremble, shiver, but no, this is a terrible idea, this is the whole reason she’s come here, to shed this, to be free of it, so she grits her teeth and presses on.  
  
“Can you turn around?” she asks hesitantly. “Is that allowed?”  
  
“Of course,” he says, standing up from the chair, turning it to face her, and she gets her first look at Father Kane.  
  
_Oh, God._  
  
(No pun intended.)  
  
He’s _magnificent_ , tall and broad-shouldered with that lush soft hair, a rich dark beard and impossibly deep brown eyes. It’s true she’d asked Callie to recommend a parish with a priest who was easy on the eyes, figuring if she was going to endure this agony she might as well give herself something nice to look at, but this just makes everything worse.  
  
He sits down facing her, so close their knees are touching, and she’s suddenly perversely glad she wore this dress – demure enough, with capped sleeves and a full skirt, to look respectable in church, but cut to give him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage if she leans forward.  
  
Which she does.  
  
It’s over in a flash, but she sees it. Eyes flick down, then swiftly back up again.  
  
Father Kane might be celibate, but he’s _definitely_ still a man.  
  
She tests the waters again, crosses her legs, sees him flinch a little, _oh Abby this was a bad idea_ , but she can’t help herself. But he’s good, he’s a professional, he shakes it off almost before the reaction is noticeable, and his eyes fix steadily on hers.  
  
“If you haven’t been to Confession in awhile,” he says, voice as sexy as it is gentle, all rumbly and warm and low, “let’s not worry ourselves too much about the proper form for the prayers. Why don’t you just talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”  
  
“Sex,” she answers promptly, before she can stop herself, and his face goes a little pink as she hastens to explain. “I’m filing for an annulment,” she says, “and they told me this was part of it. I was widowed a long time ago, and I made the mistake, very recently, of, well, Thelonious is a friend and we aren’t getting any younger and I was feeling, I don’t know, sort of . . . well, you’re a man, and you’re ridiculously handsome,” oh God she’s babbling _stop it Abby stop it, he’s staring at you_ , “but I’m a woman, it’s different for women, you hit a certain age and people stop _seeing_ you, and Thelonious asked, and I was lonely, and our kids are friends, and I thought maybe the feelings part would come later, but it didn’t. Just . . . nothing.”  
  
Father Kane is impressively collected as he asks her, in that same low voice, “You’re saying your sex life was . . . unsatisfying.”  
  
“Nonexistent,” she corrects him bluntly. “It just . . . it didn’t work. I don’t want to go into detail, I know this isn’t your area of expertise –"  
  
He laughs at this, a throaty chuckle that makes her uncross and recross her legs again. “I’m a priest, not a virgin,” he says. “Try me.”

“He couldn’t make me wet,” she says boldly, the words feeling shockingly out of place in a confessional. “Nothing he did turned me on. Nothing felt good. And he didn’t seem to care. But it brought out this, I don’t know, this thing in me, I suddenly became this person who couldn’t stop thinking about sex all the time, I mean, just _constantly_ , at the worst moments, like he’d reminded me why I needed it so badly but it also wasn’t enough.”  
  
“You miss having sex with your first husband,” he suggests, and she nods. “It was . . . with him. It was good?”  
  
“So good,” she murmurs, the thought of it coming back to her. God, Jake’s cock, Jake eating her out, Jake in her ass, Jake throwing her up against the wall in every room of their house . . . Her eyes go a little glazed and dreamy and he fidgets, like he can see the thoughts in her mind.  
  
“And your new husband –"  
  
“No, he’s not my husband anymore,” she clarifies, “we got a divorce. But I want an annulment. Wipe the whole thing away. Start clean. It only lasted a month, it was a really bad idea, and the tribunal says if the marriage was never . . . satisfactorily consummated . . . that an annulment is a real possibility.”  
  
“When you say ‘satisfactorily consummated,’ you mean –"  
  
“He never made me come,” she says directly, and Father Kane’s dark eyes lock onto hers.  
  
“I take your point,” he says softly. “Not a good start for a marriage. Not enough, for a woman like you. You deserve a man who can make you feel all the things you want to feel. The thing you had with your first husband. You deserve that again.”  
  
He leans forward in his chair. She leans forward too, almost instinctively. Their knees are touching, faces so close together. He takes her hands in his.  
  
“You’ve been having . . . sexual thoughts,” he prods her gently. “That’s the thing that’s been weighing on your mind.” She nods. “Why don’t you tell me about them.”  
  
Heat rockets through her whole body. If she didn’t know better she’d swear he wanted . . .  
  
Her eyes flicker down. He’s not wearing a cassock, just his plain black suit, and her heart pounds as she realizes she can see the beginnings of a heavy bulge between his thighs. She forgets to be discreet, stares openly at it, then looks up to see him watching her. “Why don’t you tell me,” he murmurs, “about your sexual thoughts.”  
  
“It can happen at any time,” she begins, pulse racing, letting him run gentle fingers over her wrists as he holds her hand. “I could be anywhere. And suddenly I’ll see a man, a stranger, and all I can think about is dropping to my knees and taking his cock in my mouth, or bending over in public so he can fuck me.”  
  
Father Kane’s breath starts to accelerate, and Abby can feel his pulse racing where her hands touch his. “Only men?” he asks, and she shakes her head.  
  
“No, it’s women too,” she confesses. “I was at the department store yesterday, there was a girl in the changing room next to me, she came out in this tight little dress, her breasts just falling out of the top of it, and God, I just wanted to throw her up against the wall and take her nipple in my mouth and suck it until she screamed.”  
  
“Do you often masturbate afterwards?”  
  
“All the time,” she breathes, “I went straight from there back into the changing room and I came so hard I almost passed out.”  
  
Father Kane’s hands tighten on hers. “You’re an astonishingly desirable woman,” he murmurs, "beautiful and sexual and vibrant and alive. You deserve to have the kind of sex you want to have. You deserve to feel pleasure.”  
  
“I didn’t think priests were supposed to say things like that.”  
  
“I’m doing a lot of things priests aren’t supposed to do,” he whispers, “but you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”  
  
“Father Kane,” she whispers, but her reply dies in her throat as his hands slide up her knees to palm her thighs.  
  
“Tell me more about your thoughts."

“I picture the things I miss most about Jake,” she tells him as his fingertips stroke the soft smooth skin of her thighs. She leans back in the chair a little and opens herself up to him. “I miss sucking his cock. I imagine doing that to men. In public places. And it makes me feel good all over, it makes me warm and shaky and –"  
  
“And wet,” he murmurs, one hand sliding over the hot damp cotton of her black panties. “Wet like your new husband couldn’t do for you.” She nods helplessly, and then in one swift movement he’s reached one arm around her back to lift her from her chair and pull him down on his lap, seizing her mouth in his.  
  
She explodes with wetness, soaking her panties with heat, and he moans with pleasure as he feels it warm his fingertips, tongue sweeping into her mouth. “Oh God,” she pants as one fingertip snakes inside, “I haven’t felt like this in twenty years.”  
  
“Neither have I,” he groans as she clutches at his hair, one hand braced on his chest for balance, fingertips brushing the clean white of his priest’s collar as he finds her clit. Squirming in his lap, she writhes down to capture more, and he plunges his fingers inside her cunt, silencing her moan with his lips. “Was it like this?” he murmurs. “Is this what you imagine?”  
  
“This is better,” she breathes, arching back just enough to tug her dress off over her head, leaving her naked on the priest’s lap except for a pair of cotton panties and a black lace bra. Instantly he buries his head between her breasts, groaning with something like gratitude, and she pushes him down further as she grinds on his hand. “Maybe time for _you_ to confess your sins,” she whispers, and he chuckles into the white skin of her breast.”  
  
“How about, the moment I turned around and saw you the first thing I thought was, ‘I have to fuck this woman or I’ll faint?’”  
  
“Good start,” says Abby, gasping as his fingers curl inside her and stroke her G-spot. For a celibate man, he’s fantastic with his hands. “Your penance is to make me come before you do.”  
  
“Not a problem,” he whispers, eyes flashing with mischief, and tugs her bra down with his free hand to liberate one nipple to devour with his hungry mouth. Beard on skin makes her shiver as his fingers plunge deep, and her first really good orgasm since Jake died reverberates through her like the ringing of a church bell until she sinks down on his lap, shaking, yanking him off her breast by the hair to attack him with a kiss.  
Then, “Stand up,” she whispers, slides off his lap, and pulls the _prie-dieux_ out of the corner, sinking gracefully down to her knees.  
  
He swallows hard.  
  
The sight of this woman, kneeling in her disheveled bra and soaked panties, on the carved mahogany kneeler with its red velvet upholstery, is shocking enough. But when she reaches out for him, grabs him by the belt and pulls him over to unzip his crisp black slacks, he feels a shudder that’s half guilt, half lust pulse through him.  
  
"Bless me Father, for I am about to sin," she whispers, and then his cock is inside her mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

No one has done this to him in twenty years.

From time to time he’s done it, guiltily, to himself, sometimes confessing it later and sometimes not.  He’s uncomfortable with how much this moment resembles the vague shadowy fantasies that sometimes haunt him, alone in his plain bedroom in the rectory, lying awake, slipping his hand inside his boxer shorts, thinking of some beautiful faceless figure – sometimes a woman, sometimes a man – dropping to their knees in front of him just like this.  Not on the velvet prayer bench, that particularly sacrilegious touch was all Abby, but yes, here, in this small dark intimate room, scented with candles and wood, no sound except hushed voices muffled by thick soundproofed walls.  He wonders if he’s imagined her.

But no, he can’t have, because she’s so vivid, the details are hers and not his.  He would never have imagined the _prie-dieux_ , he would never have imagined those flashing dark eyes looking up at him, he would never have imagined soft kisses up the shaft of his cock with just the faintest, most tantalizing whisper of tongue until she reached the head and took it between her lips, swirling her tongue in dizzying circles around the very tip until he felt faint and had to reach out his hand to brace himself against the wall.  God in Heaven, how could _anyone_ be married to this woman and go even a _day_ without fucking her, what kind of husband _was_ this guy?

He braces his palm on the warm dark wood, scented with decades of incense and candle smoke, of the wall behind Abby’s head, leaning into her and letting her open up to take him deeper.  Her hands work busily to tug his slacks and boxers down all the way so she can grip his hips in her hands, soft fingertips sliding up under the hem of his shirt, brushing his waist, his thighs, slipping around just for a moment to cup the taut muscles of his ass, making him gasp.  Her mouth stays busy, soft and wet and insistent, drawing excruciating waves of tension from some deep place within his center until every muscle in his body is tense as a bowstring with an almost shocking arousal.  He’s not sure he’s ever been this hard in his life.  Her little tongue flicks at the ridge, sweeps up the delicate purple-blue ribbon of vein, laps up the droplets of precum seeping out of the slit, as her hands glide back over his hips to trace light fingertips up the inside of his thighs.  When she takes his balls in both hands, her caress is filled with something like reverence, pressing gently, kneading, scratching lightly with delicate nails at the sensitive skin behind them.  He flinches, groans hard, cries out, sends up a prayer of gratitude for his predecessor who invested in soundproofing to allow the Sunday morning choir to rehearse while Confessions were open without disrupting the penitent visitors.  It was designed to keep blasting organ music from interrupting private conversations, but it serves well to muffle Father Kane’s hoarse, desperate groans as his hips rock involuntarily into the soft rosy lips that hold him tight and warm and wet in their grip.

He's getting close, he can feel it, and even though he knows it's crossing an even bigger line than the one he’s already crossed, the idea of coming in her beautiful mouth, without having the chance to fuck her, feels like a waste.  “Abby,” he groans, tangling his hands in her silky hair, cupping her cheeks, shivering at the feel of them filling and hollowing as she looked up at him, sucking harder and harder, fingers still stroking all his shockingly sensitive places.  “Abby, I want . . . I want . . .”

She reads it in his eyes and lets his thick, hard, now-glistening cock slide with impossible slowness over her warm lips and out of her mouth.  “Say it,” she murmurs, as he grips her roughly by the shoulders and pulls her to her feet, crashing his mouth against her wet shining lips, feeling her melt into him.  “Say it.”

“Please,” he pants, “please, let me fuck you.  Please.”

“Take off your clothes,” she murmurs, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.  They fly off in a flash, strewn everywhere, shirt landing on the back of the chair, socks on the ground by the doorway.  She laughs, amused and delighted (she _likes_ him, a distant part of his mind realizes in surprise), lazily tugging her own lace panties down and unfastening her bra as she watches him hastily shed his boxers and undershirt.  “Eager,” she observes dryly.

“Twenty years,” he reminds her, and she laughs again, leaning back against the heavy wooden wall and holding out her hands to him.

He takes her hands in his but sinks down onto his own knees, resting his forehead against the soft curve of her stomach, just above her pubic bone, and breathes her in for a long moment before diving in with something between worshipful adoration and pure selfish greed, lapping at the two soft folds, shadowed in silken hair, then ducking his tongue between them and running it hard and flat up her center until she shudders and cries out, hands clutching at his shoulders.

She tastes like something between warm blood and the ocean, but in a shudderingly delicious way, and he’s stunned to realize how wet she is already, thick tart juices flooding his lips and beard and tongue, leaving him sticky and aching with arousal as he nuzzles in deeper and deeper.  Her thighs begin to tremble and he feels her sink back into the wall, bracing herself, and she’s ready now, he could stand up and take her now, but all he can think is that nobody has done this to her since her first husband died and he’d stay her all day making her come if he could, but by God he’s not ready to stop tasting her just yet. 

When he darts his tongue into the hot, moist opening and nudges hard at her clit with her nose, she makes a soft little gasping sound, like astonishment, which send heat shooting through his body.  So he does it again, chasing the sound, fucking her cunt with hard sharp darting movements of his tongue before kissing his way up to suckle hard and hungry at her clit.  She comes with a near-scream, pitching forward and catching herself against his shoulders, clutching his flesh for balance as he rises up and backs her into the wall, letting her kiss the sticky warmth off his mouth and beard and chin.

“Eventually,” he murmurs, kissing his way down her neck as his fingers knead the hard little peaks of her nipples, “we’ll probably have to get back to talking about what you came here to talk about.”

“I feel better already,” she chuckles, gripping his hips and pulling him close.  “Maybe this was all I really needed.”

“I should try this more often, then.  Easier than talking.”

“And a lot more fun.”

 “That too,” he agrees, gripping her narrow waist in his strong hands, and then in one smooth push he’s inside her.

The shock of contact startles both of them – it’s been so many years, for him and for her, that it feels almost like the very first time again.  “Oh, Jesus,” Abby gasps, eyes wide, staring up at him, arms twining around his neck.

“Amen,” he whispers back, leaning his forehead against hers, holding still inside her for a moment – so slick and tight and soaking wet, her heat flowing into him – before instinct takes over for conscious thought, his hips beginning to move against hers, and then they’re both lost.

Neither of them speak out loud that they both want it rough, but it doesn’t need saying.  He grinds into her, hard, heavy, thrusting with the full force of his weight as she wraps one slim thigh around him and pulls him closer, fingers digging into his back, spurring him on.  Hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, no sound but muffled gasps and sighs and the slap of skin on skin as they fuck.  Words disappear completely, communicating only with their bodies.  When Abby lets go of his back and plants her hands against his chest to push him away, he knows instantly what she wants, and turns her roughly around to slam her back up against the wall, sliding hot and hard into her from behind as she gasps out a shattered, quivering “yes” of ecstatic pleasure.  He slides his hand around to stroke her clit, causing a little high-pitched cry to tumble out of her lips, burying his mouth in the back of her neck.  Her ass is soft and perfect, yielding against the hard press of his body as her cunt opens up deeper and deeper to him.

She comes first, crying out at the frantic pressure of his fingertips on her clit and the heavy weight of his cock inside her, moving in tandem, bracing herself with both palms against the wall as he fucks and fucks, grunting hard into her soft skin until he comes deep inside her with a shudder so violent he almost loses his balance.

They stand there for a long time, sweaty, sticky, catching their breath.  He’s swept with a sudden hesitation, realizing he feels none of the shame he might have expected but suddenly frightened that _she_ might.

He holds her close, curiously reluctant to let go, pressing soft light kisses into her shoulder, waiting to see what she’ll say.  A long, still moment passes before she finally shifts inside his arms and turns around.

“So,” she says, looking up at him, “do you do this often?”

“Taking Confessions, or the other thing?”

“Confessions,” she laughs.

“Every week, but I’d just as soon take yours in a bed next time.”

“Well, I have a lot of sins,” she informs him in a serious voice, the hint of a laugh sparkling in her eyes.  “You’ll probably need to settle in and get comfortable.”

“Set aside a whole evening.”

“Bring wine.”

She kisses his mouth, smiling.  “If I’d known it was this effective at curing what ails you,” she says archly, “I’d have gone back to church years ago.”


End file.
